


Breaking the Habit

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Drug Withdrawal, Sexual Tension, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock swallows his pride and texts Mycroft as he's suffering from cocaine withdrawal, and ends up in an even more humiliating position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Sherlock BBC prompting meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=37891437#t37891437

Sherlock was nineteen when he first tried to quit. He had been kicked out of university for poor grades, since he never bothered to attend classes any more. He had gotten away with the semester before, when he still went to his exams, but flunking each and every one of his midterms due to not showing up was impossible to get around. He was brilliant ( _and knew it_ ) but his focus, all of his genius, was solely wrapped up in getting his next fix. Cocaine’s rush was phenomenal, so much more worth his time than lectures by old men not half as smart as himself, rambling on topics with no practical application in this world like art and literature and religion.

But drugs were expensive. Too expensive, even after Sherlock started shoplifting. And the rush wasn’t _quite_ as good any more. Sherlock was loathe to admit his dependence on something, but he finally concluded that the cocaine was a distraction. He didn’t know precisely how he could exercise his insatiable mind - certainly not with more courses at university - but he did know that continuing full-on with cocaine would slowly waste him away. So, in an act of self-will he shamelessly congratulated himself for, he quit.

Sherlock managed three days, two hours, and fifty-one minutes after the withdrawal symptoms began to set in. Three days, two hours, and fifty-one minutes of independence but utter misery. Twenty-seven hours since food. Forty hours since sleep, alternating between exhaustion and an insatiable desire to _move_ , barely fighting the urge to tear off his own constantly-itchy skin. Four thousand, four hundred and ninety-one minutes until he realized, as he tossed and turned in his bed, that he could not, _could not_ handle this on his own. If he was to resist, to refuse to press those two buttons on his phone and bring his dealer to him, to bring back the euphoria, he had to admit he couldn’t wait it out alone.

There was only one person Sherlock could trust. He didn’t want to trust him, and he didn’t want to need him, but there was no one else. No one else who would come, no one else who would even care (and Sherlock knew he did care, even as some self-destructive part of his brain despised the man for it). Hating himself for his weakness, but trying to hate him more, Sherlock held his phone with shaking hands and managed to text three garbled words.

Mycroft arrived twenty-one minutes later. Mycroft, who was constantly, unstoppably busy with his secretive government job. Myrcroft, who was only five years older but seemed decades more responsible (which Sherlock, as he spun back and forth, grabbing at the sheets in restless frustration, couldn’t decide was a horribly obnoxious trait or an undeniably useful one). Mycroft who’d offered help numerous times, more than Sherlock probably deserved, undeterred in spite of the rude refusals he’d always been met with. Mycroft who, despite all that, had dropped everything to come to Sherlock’s aid upon reading those three simple words: _I neeed yyou._

The buzz of the doorbell was harsh, _obnoxious_ , causing Sherlock to scowl as he crawled out of bed and over to open the door. Mycroft was waiting, dressed in a dull grey suit, clearly having come straight from work, his usually diplomatic expression banished by genuine concern. He stepped in, brown eyes taking in the details of the half-destroyed studio flat (most of it a victim of Sherlock’s recent irritability and the rest casual neglect of months past) in one-and-a-half seconds.

“Three days, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked quietly. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Sherlock’s initial instinct was severe annoyance, _because of course Mycroft knew the answer already,_ but he before he could retort, he was distracted by a sudden, wracking itching all over his body. It was a sensation that had been lurking since he quit, but he’d been fighting it for seventy-four hours now (sixty-seven of them fully conscious) and it was even worse now. Sherlock couldn’t _take_ it any more.

Before he managed to move to inflict the first scratch upon his itching flesh, his wrists were grabbed and held tightly. Sherlock struggled vainly, desperate to be free to rip off some of the invisible insects that he could feel invading every millimeter of his skin, a million tiny, burning, _terrible_ movements.

In several frenzied minutes, Sherlock was lying on his bed, pinned down by Mycroft, twisting helplessly. There were so many details, sensory input everywhere, but they seemed meaningless. The distant hot breath of Mycroft on his neck was a vague distraction; Mycroft was struggling to keep Sherlock pinned down without pressing his own body too close. Sherlock’s entire body felt tense, painful, hot even though he knew it was winter. In his poorly-heated flat, his bare feet should be freezing right now, but he barely noticed the temperature. His skin was crawling. Sherlock wrenched his thoughts away from that itching. Mycroft smelt of cologne and ever-so-slightly of sweat half-masked by deodorant; he had been anxious on his way here. Sherlock himself was sweating too, unpleasant damp patches forming under the arms of his tee-shirt, _though not nearly as disgusting as the bugs all over his skin._ Not that. What else? There was the increasing, uncomfortable feeling of pressure in his lower abdomen.

“Get off,” Sherlock said suddenly, his voice cutting through the wordless rustle of fabric and heavy breathing. His efforts were filled with renewed vigor as he struggled, fighting to control the insistent pressure. It’d probably been rising for hours now, but had been entirely overshadowed by the incessant _crawling_ sensation. 

Mycroft, of course, ignored him, like he always had, and the thought made Sherlock irrationally angry, viciously trying to claw at any accessible bit of his brother. Sherlock needed to get up now and go take care of this, but Mycroft seemed oblivious, apparently thinking it was just another attempt to scratch at himself. This wasn’t an unreasonable assumption (in fact, it was by far the most logical conclusion, Sherlock dimly realized through the haze of anger and _itching_ ) and so again, he tried to speak.

“Mycroft, get off of me!”

“Sherlock, it’s alright.” Mycroft stayed firmly in place, wincing slightly when Sherlock briefly freed a hand and dug his fingernails into his shoulder, trying to pry him off. He quickly readjusted to keep Sherlock down again. “There’s nothing on you; you’re going to be fine. Just relax.”

“It’s not!” Sherlock cried, biting his lip as Mycroft’s shifting briefly bumped against the center of his more recent discomfort. His need to piss was undeniable now, just as demanding as the slightly, _slightly_ lessening emphasis on his skin _itching_ , approaching manageable though whether that was because it wasn’t as bad or it was simply relative to the pressure in his abdomen, he wasn’t sure.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Mycroft asked quite seriously. He no doubt knew that Sherlock would refuse; _a threat to cooperate more than anything else,_ Sherlock thought furiously.

“No! I want you to let go of me!”

Sherlock slipped a hand free again and grabbed Mycroft’s throat. He squeezed as Mycroft let go of his other wrist to pry his hand away, gasping at the sudden decrease in oxygen. Sherlock’s newly liberated hand curled into a fist and went straight for his brother’s gut. In his fury, however, his aim was off and the punch didn’t succeed at knocking the wind out of the larger man. Mycroft’s face was marred with pain, but he refused to retaliate. He dutifully trapped Sherlock’s wrists again with as much strength as possible and held them down. To prevent Sherlock from kicking him, he moved hold down Sherlock’s legs with his own as well, accidentally bumping Sherlock’s lower torso with his knee in the process.

“Stop!” Sherlock yelped, as he felt his body _almost_ let go, taken off guard by it, just barely stopping it in time. The itching was still there but his urgency to urinate was now his primary focus. The waistband of his jeans felt uncomfortably tight even without a belt, and Sherlock suddenly remembered drinking several glasses of cola earlier when he’d been antsy, when he’d been trying to come up with something _anything_ to do to distract him from the subtle creeping feeling coating his flesh.

“Don’t scream,” Mycroft replied, lips pursed. He was concerned about the neighbors; he still didn’t understand.

Desperately, Sherlock blurted out, “I need to piss.”

Understanding dawned on Mycroft’s face, though it was still hesitant, clearly concerned about Sherlock’s potential behavior if he was let loose. Slowly, _far too slowly,_ Mycroft climbed off him, releasing his wrists. Sherlock’s bladder ached, desperate for release, and he had to consciously fight to keep his muscles obedient as he gingerly rose to his feet. One step towards the bathroom, a sudden contraction hit him, and his body threatened to spill. He gasped and grabbed his crotch; it was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as the alternative was.

He tried to hurry, but he was interrupted by having to stop and squeeze his thighs together. He was shaking from the effort and the itching and the exhaustion. Every couple of steps, his body became more and more insistent, until right outside the bathroom Sherlock felt a sudden spurt of warmth. He managed to stem it almost immediately, but he blushed horribly, avoiding Mycroft’s concerned look and worried it might be showing through his trousers.

In the bathroom, Sherlock hurried over to the toilet. His abdomen hurt terribly as he reached down for his fly. His shaking fingers slipped from the button when he tried to grasp it. The itching, crawling feeling wracked his body and he couldn’t focus; the pressure was too much, even as Sherlock finally slipped the button free.

Hot liquid poured out of him, soaking the front of his jeans. Sherlock grabbed desperately at himself, trying to stop it, but his muscles simply would not obey. Urine streamed down his legs, staining the denim all the way to his ankles. It pooled at his feet, slowly relieving the tension as Sherlock tried again to cease the flow, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as his body stubbornly ignored his will.

When the last of it finally trickled out of him, Sherlock could no longer contain his tears. He sunk down into the disgusting, _disgusting_ puddle at his feet and pulled his knees in, burying his head in his arms. His skin still would not stop moving and here he was, sitting on the bathroom floor, having pissed his own pants like a toddler, utterly, _pathetically_ unable to control himself. To make matters worse, Mycroft had followed him and was now leaning down with what Sherlock knew must have been a look torn between disgust and pity. Sherlock wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Come here.” Mycroft was grabbing Sherlock’s arms, trying to pull him back to his feet. Sherlock went stubbornly limp, refusing to look into his brother’s eyes.

Nothing more was said as Mycroft half-dragged, half-helped Sherlock over to the shower. Mycroft let him go only long enough to turn on the water before allowing him to collapse in a heap at the bottom of the tub.

Cold water soaked him almost instantly as he curled up into a ball, grabbing at his own arms _still itching._ He dug his fingernails in and pulled, scratching nearly deep enough to draw blood, _needing to get those crawling things off._ He barely noticed Mycroft throwing off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, not until his brother reached in and adjusted the water temperature with bare forearms before grabbing Sherlock’s hands.

“Calm down, Sherlock, calm down,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Disgusting,” Sherlock spat, vainly trying to pull away. His resolve softened as he felt the lukewarm water fully saturating his clothes, a vaguely cleansing feeling. Mycroft was gently sliding his thumbs along the back of Sherlock’s hands even as he gripped him tightly.

“We’re going to get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock shuddered but started to relax in spite of still struggling against the want to scratch at himself. He let Mycroft peel off his shirt, though he tried to wriggle away when his brother reached down to his jeans.

“Do you want to at least stand up?”

Sherlock shook his head. The water felt pleasant as it cascaded against his bare chest, less so as it still splashed his face. He pulled himself up to sit, leaning against the front wall of the shower, back pressed uncomfortably against the faucet. There was less water getting on his face now, but also less so on the rest of him.

“Move over then.”

Without thinking much about it, Mycroft’s hand gently pushing him towards the center of the tub, Sherlock scooted over. Mycroft plugged the drain and Sherlock watched the water pool on the uneven beige floor of the bathtub. His jeans were rather waterlogged now; as the water rose, he decided they weren’t particularly necessary. Modesty wasn’t something he had much of in the first place - an unnecessary and often inconvenient social construct - though after his jeans and boxers were unceremoniously dumped on the floor, he bent the knee closer to Mycroft. It was entirely for his brother’s sake, he told himself, even though his own cheeks were flushing slightly.

The water was warm and clear, only slightly obscuring his flesh beneath its ripples. Sherlock stared into it, wishing it would take away that creeping feeling, but at least it seemed to be alleviating it slightly.

Mycroft knelt beside the tub. Once it was nearly full, he turned it off and reached for the half-empty bottle of shampoo.

“I’m perfectly capable of washing myself,” Sherlock stated. Nevertheless, he didn’t move away as Mycroft squeezed a dab of shampoo into his hands and reached for Sherlock’s hair.

The itching still wasn’t gone, and Sherlock found himself idly digging his fingers into his knees, but his brother swatted away his roaming hands. As Mycroft’s fingers massaged his scalp, he let his eyes drift close. Something heavenly close to fatigue was drifting his way, more sincere this time, like he’d finally be able to sleep. Like he could relax.

Not many minutes later, Mycroft was carrying Sherlock back to his bed, hair still dripping, body toweled off to merely damp, dressed in nothing but a thin dressing gown. The insects and the irritation and the humiliation still lurked in the back of Sherlock’s head, but for right now, he was blissfully asleep.


End file.
